Okay, quick housekeeping: there will only be one more chapter of this fic, an interlude set during the final scene of this chapter, and then we will move onto sequels. MAYBE. If A&P + wedding planning don't totally kick my ass this semester.

(Why, yes, I am attending school full time and also trying to get married without first committing murder. Wish me luck. Next chapter will hopefully be faster, but I tell all my readers that.)

Sarah woke to the morning sun suffusing her privacy curtain with warm, golden light. She had relaxed some in her sleep, abused muscles un-knotting. Her chest and neck no longer hurt when she took a deep breath, so she took in another and stretched, yawning. When she rubbed the sleep away from her eyes, she realized that she wasn't alone in her cubicle.

Jareth was reclined in a stuffed armchair. He'd leaned it back on one leg, and apparently his immunity to gravity had kept the chair up all night, allowing him to stretch out and even sleep. His darker eye was closed, but the eye with the smaller pupil was open and staring fixedly at a spot on the ceiling.

It was both sweet and unsettling. "Jareth?"

The briefest of pauses, as if rather than waking up, he was recalling himself from somewhere deep inside his head. His other eye snapped open and he jerked his head to look at her. The chair returned to the ground with a thump.

Jareth's mouth was turned just faintly down and his eyes were set hard in his face. "Gurdie summoned me last night, as you had been taken to the hospital wing, and she knew not why." A pause, and he softened, if only a little. "Sarah," he said, and he still said her name like a prayer and a curse at once. "What happened?"

She tried to look around to see if there was anyone else in the hospital wing, but with the curtain drawn, she couldn't tell. Jareth, at least, seemed to pick up on the reason for her hesitation. He lifted a finger from where he'd lain an arm on his chair, and a little wind rose up from the ground in a circle, ruffling her covers and the privacy screen.

"You may speak freely. None will see or hear us," he said, and she remembered the same spell he'd cast in Diagon Alley, all those months ago.

How far they had come. How little she'd traveled to get there, when she thought about it.

But time was short, as Jareth had once told her, and so she told him the story. All of it, everything she could remember, not just what happened but what Dumbledore had said, and it came out scattered and fragmented and occasionally she had to trip backwards. Jareth stayed surprisingly silent, never interrupting, until at last she'd reached the end. When she let herself look back up at him, he was regarding her with an expression she couldn't name.

"You blame yourself for not having done more," he told her. "Quite foolishly, precious thing. Save call on me — and I wish you had — there was nothing more you could have done. But I suppose no Champion of my Labyrinth is ever easily satisfied."

"A questing wand," she said.

And Jareth inclined his head, agreeing: "For a restless heart. You have that in abundance." A pause, and he tilted his head so far to one side his ear had to be touching his shoulder. "I suppose you have concerns about this… Voldemort?"

"Don't you?"

He waved a hand. "Wizards are always frightened of some Dark Lord or other. But they're as mortal as any other man, and the wizards seem adept enough at putting their world back however they've decided it should go. So long as they do not abuse my subjects — and they rarely have, since their foolish little Wars — I honestly take little notice of them."

Sarah waited a moment, looking at him. "But you are concerned about something."

That earned a wry smile. "Tell me truly, precious thing. Was Dumbledore as forthcoming as you would have wished?"

She didn't have an answer for that. Not one she wanted to admit out loud, anyway, and Jareth could clearly see it. He inclined his head again, releasing her from any expectation of answering. He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, it was with enough seriousness that she couldn't possibly have missed the dangerous edge in his voice.

"In any case — whosoever makes an enemy of you, or an enemy of Harry Potter, makes an enemy of me."

Maybe she shouldn't have found that comforting. Maybe she was supposed to protest that she was plenty dangerous on her own, that she'd gotten through her fight with Quirrell without needing much help. But the truth was: there really weren't many people she wanted to have on her side more than an angry Goblin King. And that Jareth was furious — that she had been in danger, that Harry had been in danger and hurt — she didn't doubt.

It was selfish, maybe. But it also felt good to be taken seriously, to get raw honesty out of a trickster.

"I'll keep that in mind," she said. Her voice came out wryer than she really felt, but Jareth was apparently feeling magnanimous enough to ignore that.

Instead, he smiled beatifically and said, "I had hoped you might."

He rose then from his chair and gestured with one hand. The wind ruffled around the cubicle again. The curtain parted to reveal Harry sitting upright in a chair beside Ron Weasley's bed. Hermione was on Ron's other side, though she was reading a thick, dusty looking book whose title Sarah couldn't quite pick out from across the room.

Harry's eyes were haunted, shadowed deeply from lack of sleep. She would have seen that at any distance.

Jareth conjured them another pair of chairs and Vanished the one he'd been at her bedside in.

"Harry told us what happened," Ron said, looking up. His eyes flicked from Jareth to her, and they, too, were haunted, with dark circles underneath them. Madam Pomfrey had found the time to clean the wound on his scalp; in fact, so far as Sarah could tell, he wasn't even hurt anymore.

But something had left its mark on him, the way the Imperius had left its mark on her, the way Harry's mother and everything that had happened in the room with the mirror had left their sign on him. They were each of them standing under the shadows of their own thunder clouds.

"What I remember, anyway," Harry added. "Did you… Did you really hit Professor Quirrell in the back of the head?"

There was no point dancing around it. The only way out was through, and even as she thought it, she was remembering It's further than you think, and time is short.

"Yes, Harry. I did."

"And that's what…?"

"That's what killed him."

A few expressions flickered across his face. He was clearly at war with himself, and Ron had turned to stare at Harry, gobsmacked. Hermione, on the other hand, had looked up from her book, and she seemed concerned.

"It wasn't you, Harry. That magic around you, that burned Quirrell when he touched you? It hadn't done enough damage yet." She didn't doubt that he would have died, eventually. But that was a nuance that Harry didn't need on his conscience.

Before he started processing the idea that she had literally killed a man for him, she went on to add, "And Harry? If anyone had been in your place, I would have done the same thing. It wasn't because it was Voldemort, and it wasn't because it was you. It was because somebody was trying to kill a student — a kid."

The troubled expression on Hermione's face eased, a little. Harry gave a solemn nod.

It was Ron who asked, "Even Malfoy?" with such a disgruntled expression that she had to laugh. Hermione shot him a glare, mouthing, 'This is serious!'

"Even Malfoy," Sarah agreed, and it was enough not only to cut the tension she'd been feeling — but it looked like it helped Harry, too. Some of the stiffness relaxed from his shoulders, and the tightness in his face drained away. "Now, you know what happened to me, but I don't know anything about how the three of you got so far."

Harry and Ron lit up at a chance to talk about how brilliant they had all been — themselves, each other, Hermione; and the story was soon pouring from all three of them. Sarah settled into her chair and prepared herself to listen.

Poppy released her from the hospital wing with little ceremony, save offering her the robes she'd worn last night. They'd been scoured with a cleaning charm, and Sarah was glad to strip from the shapeless, loosely-belted white hospital gown into something that was hers. After that, she made her way back to her little neighborhood. There were people in dark gray robes, with brown Victorian-looking greatcoats over them, trooping in and out of what had been Quirrell's suite. She hung back a little, watching them, until one of them noticed her.

He straightened, hand drifting down to a sheath slung on his hip. She doubted that was a knife in there. "You are?"

"Sarah Williams," she said. "Lecturer for Muggle Studies. And you?"

A pause. His lower lip twitched for a moment before he inclined his head. "Auror William Evans. Why are you in this part of the castle, Lecturer Williams?" His eyes skated over her, but the gaze was dispassionate even as it flicked to Jareth, where he stood behind her shoulder. If Auror Evans saw the Goblin King, he gave absolutely no sign of it.

He couldn't be that good of a poker player, could he?

"I live here," she said, and then pointed at her door. "Those are my rooms."

A pause, a nod, and Auror Evans about-faced and headed back into Quirrell's room.

She murmured the password to her door. Jareth followed her in. If he was surprised when she bypassed the front room to head into her bathroom and hit the taps on her clawfoot tub, he didn't show it. He did reach out, pulling her in close to him, and she let him. She rested her head against his chest, listening to the long, slow sound of his heartbeat.

Jareth bent his neck just enough to drop a kiss on the top of her head.

"Shall I return for you later, Sarah?" His voice was surprisingly soft, and the way he said her name sent a subtle shiver down her spine.

There was a lump in her throat. "Don't go far?"

"I don't intend to leave the Castle. The children… They need me, I suspect." He paused, considering. "Or someone. Naturally, I will offer my poor best."

She snorted a laugh. "False modesty, Goblin King?"

He offered her an enigmatic smile, and with a sound that could have been thunder rolling across the grounds, he was gone.

Sarah stripped her robes, throwing them into her laundry basket, and climbed into the tub. She sank gratefully beneath the water, and the white noise rush of its fall drowned out the world.

Like she had for the Sorting Feast, Sarah brushed her hair until it shone, then left it to fall freely down her back. She stared at her closet, then sorted through the mess of fabric until she'd found a pale yellow robe with blue flowers embroidered along its sleeves and train. They looked delicate and real, and Sarah inspected them, wondering for the first time what went into magical dressmaking. She'd sewn — mostly altering or repairing — her share of medieval costumes, and she'd done cross stitch in a home economics class that felt like it had been a dozen years ago, instead of only four or five.

She still couldn't have made anything like this.

Sarah pulled the robes over her head, then began adjusting her laces, moving her wand the way Mirlinda Baum had showed her before Halloween.

Jareth was waiting for her outside her door. He was dressed surprisingly simply, for him — a poet shirt, breeches, his white cloak — and he actually bowed before offering her his arm. Sarah took it, casting a glance in the direction of Quirrell's door.

Nobody was there. Whatever the Aurors had been looking for — whoever they were, anyway — they seemed to have found and then gone away again.

Neither Jareth nor Sarah had to conjure a chair for him at the staff table. Instead, Dumbledore had provided. Or maybe there was an extra chair because Quirrell's spot had been removed. She didn't know, and she was trying hard not to care.

The professors seemed to be looking at her with curiosity as she and Jareth took their seats. Sarah ignored them, looking around instead at the green and silver decor. The Hogwarts crest had been replaced with the Slytherin emblem, and the Slytherin students were all cheerful at their table, while more than a few Gryffindors were staring sullenly at the great hourglasses full of gems. Ron was among them, with Harry and Hermione around him. Harry was staring down at his plate; Hermione had actually brought her dusty tome to the dinner table, though she at least wasn't reading it.

Dumbledore rose from his chair, and all the chatter — bitter and joyous both — ceased.

"An announcement, before we eat, and a few last minute points to award." He drew a breath in, and Sarah almost wondered if he was preparing. "Professor Quirinus Quirrell has passed away. He was found dead in the restricted third floor corridor. He was a brilliant student here at Hogwarts; as a professor, he will be missed."

It took the students aback. A murmur ran through the hall, students turning to each other, speculating in whispers. And even the professors looked sidelong at Quirrell's empty place. Cam Rowe, at least, was looking at Sarah as if concerned. Under the table, Jareth squeezed her hand.

"And, on a happier note, the last minute points. Fifty points to Gryffindor, for a well-played game of chess — one of the best in Hogwarts' long history."

At the Gryffindor table, Ron gaped in shock and delight, half-rising in his seat, and rubies began to fall into the Gryffindor hourglass.

Dumbledore ignored it, saying, "Fifty points to Gryffindor, for solving a dangerous and difficult puzzle." A clear reference to Hermione, and a reference she and the boys obviously understood. The sound of rubies hitting each other in the enchanted glass was all but thunderous, now, and the children at the Slytherin table were darting glances at the great hourglasses.

Surely he wouldn't. It was so unfair. Why would he bother with this? Wasn't it enough that the children had escaped with their lives?

"Fifty more points to Gryffindor, for courage in the face of supreme danger and resolve in the face of evil."

The Gryffindor and Slytherin points were now equal. When she looked to Snape, he'd wiped his expression entirely smooth, his dark eyes hooded and staring up at the hourglasses.

"And last, but certainly not least, while it is difficult to stand up in the face of evil, it is even more difficult to stand up to one's friends. Ten points to Gryffindor, for showing such bravery last night."

And he'd done it. The rubies were still tinkling as they fell, and the number on the counter above them rose higher and higher, until it had risen a hundred points — only a bare few above the Slytherin number, but still above it.

She almost couldn't believe what she was seeing.

Dumbledore waved his hand, and the green and silver decor turned Gryffindor red and gold. The serpent on the great banner became a lion.

It was done.

And all Sarah could think about, despite the way Harry's eyes were shining, and the way the Gryffindor table was cheering, was how cruel and unfair it was. At the thought of fairness, she turned to look at the Hufflepuff table, and saw that while a few of them looked pleased Slytherin had lost, the rest looked perplexed.

When she turned to look at Jareth, he looked annoyed, though he quickly hid the expression beneath boredom.

Dinner commenced with noise and chaos as the students all began talking at once, and when Sarah looked back to the staff table, food had appeared on the golden plates.

Dinner continued until the ceiling above them was deep blue and spangled with stars. She dodged a few questions about just what had happened, about whether or not she'd been involved in Quirrell's death, and spent the rest of her time grilling her fellow staff about their plans for the summer. When the feast ended, the table headed — not quite as one, more in twos and threes — up to the staff wing, apparently for a nightcap. Sarah followed them, though at a slow enough pace that when she arrived, Snape was already speaking softly but insistently.

"—don't see what possible purpose this served," he was saying. "Classes had ended. Term was all but over. Will the period between the end of exams and the Feast now be eligible for points in the future?"

"Severus," Dumbledore said, and it was the voice of Pomona Sprout, of all people, who interrupted with, "Severus has a point. I'm as happy as anybody to see a different House win the Cup after a six-year streak, but I would hardly call the last-minute points fair. Especially since nobody knows what service you were referring to."

"It seemed kind of unfair to me," she made a point of adding as she stepped into the room. "I mean, sure, all that was done by students of Hogwarts — but except for Neville, they weren't really doing anything at all relating to being students here. They all definitely did some extraordinary things, worthy of recognition, but… Not at the expense of a whole House of students, who really worked hard for the Cup this year."

Snape caught her eye again, inclining his head in the very barest of nods. It evidently meant something to him that she was speaking up in defense of his House. She wondered if almost nobody else did.

Even Minerva didn't look particularly approving, she noticed. The older woman hadn't said anything, either for or against Dumbledore's stunt with the House Cup, but she'd narrowed her lips down to a thin line, pressed them together like she was trying not to talk.

Rather than get angry at the criticism, Dumbledore looked on, serene and almost pleased. "Inter-house cooperation at last," he said. And then that damnable twinkle was back. "Congratulations on a successful year to all of you. Shall we toast?"

At those words, a row of champagne flutes appeared, lined up at the edge of the staff table, and the muttering subsided as they moved forward. Not as one, and not without some jostling and passing some of the flutes around. In the surprisingly orderly scrum, Cam appeared at her elbow on one side. Rolanda appeared at her other, with Aurora pressed close. One of Rolanda's arms was around the other witch's shoulders.

"I don't remember seeing you with us for this last year," Rolanda said while Aurora squinted at the empty glass she'd been handed.

"I wasn't," Sarah admitted.

Cam grinned at them. His gray eyes danced, finally alert after the end of OWLs and NEWTs. "Pretty sure she was still hiding in her rooms most nights. The traditional toast is based on the school song, by the way."

"Founders, founders," Dumbledore, Minerva, and several others said in perfect unison. The other voices — save Flitwick, Professor Binns, and the custodian — dropped off as the toast continued, "say we've taught them something, please," and then what followed was a foray into a language Sarah was pretty sure she didn't speak. It sounded familiar and old, like something she'd read in her Beowulf class, or maybe her Chaucer classes, but the meaning seemed just beyond her reach.

But then all the glasses filled with champagne, and when she drank, it tasted sweet, with just a faint bite of salt. She drained her glass, smiled, and said, "So, the school song is in Old English?"

Cam dipped his head in a gesture that was half nod, half shake, like acknowledging a point that wasn't totally right. "It was at one point. I think we're lucky, quite frankly, that some of our ghosts — the Grey Lady and the Fat Friar especially — don't speak in it. I know there are some portraits that do, and some that speak Middle and even Early Modern."

"It's what the Founders spoke, after all," Aurora pointed out. "The school dates from 990."

She was pretty sure that had been somewhere in Hogwarts: A History, but the exact date had slipped her mind. A thousand and two years.

"Anyway, I'm pretty sure the toast started once the Founders had all passed," Cam said, cutting through her moment of woolgathering. "It was traditional, for a long time, to… sort of act like the Founders hadn't really… well, died. Like they'd just gone holidaying and they'd come back, eventually."

Aurora shook her head. Her glass had refilled, but with something violently pink that was so cold the glass had frosted over and was giving off steam. "What a dreary thought for the start of summer." She raised her glass. "To a successful year."

They all echoed her, and when Sarah clinked her glass against Aurora's, it filled, too, with something cold and pink. She drank, and smiled, and wanted to be anywhere but where she was. But at the same time, it was good to take part in the traditions, and it was good to find something to be happy about. She drifted away from her neighbors, though, threading her way through the party to find Severus Snape.

He was in a corner near the door. His robes were for once perfectly still while he stared out at the rest of them. There was a glass of champagne on an end table next to him, but it looked like he hadn't even had a taste.

"I figured you'd have left by now," she said. "You never really struck me as the party type."

Snape looked down at his champagne, then back up at her. His lip curled up in a sneer for a moment, but it flickered away as quickly as all his other expressions. His voice was even and measured, and at an almost normal indoor volume, when he said, "At Dumbledore's request, I make an effort."

"Well, at least you make an effort." And she was being sincere. Snape was absolutely a dick, and she didn't like him much, but she also didn't want to get into a fight right after Dumbledore had been so unfair to his students. She'd done enough fighting the night before.

Snape shifted uncomfortably. He even reached down and picked up his champagne, although he didn't drink it, just toyed with the stem of the flute. "About earlier," he said, and then trailed off.

"It wasn't fair," she said. But the words sounded so much like something she would have said seven years ago that she couldn't quite choke back a laugh at herself. "I think I still say that a lot. Jareth once asked me what my basis for comparison was. I guess he's not wrong — I know the world's not a fair or even always a nice place. But…"

Snape inclined his head. "But," he agreed. He paused for a moment, and then said, "I had not expected support."

"I'm full of surprises," she replied, and she was trying for glib, but it didn't quite get there. Being full of surprises was why she was alive. Her thoughts flashed back to Quirrell, to what the impact of her iron bar had done to his skull, to the shock of it that went up both her arms. She tried to shove the thought away.

"Perhaps," was Snape's only reply. He set his champagne down, gave her a formal-looking nod, and swooped away, robes swirling as he went.

Sarah stared after him, not sure if she was disgruntled or just weirded out by how not awful that conversation had been. She shook her head, sighed, and left the party.

Jareth was leaning against the wall by her doorway when she made it there. She took a step toward him, murmuring her password, and he followed her into her rooms. The heavy wooden door swung shut behind them, locking with a click that seemed to echo through her quarters.

"Your doing?" She arched an eyebrow at Jareth, but all he did was raise his eyebrows back, and then he reached out to touch her, trailing fingertips lightly over her cheek. It shouldn't have been as comforting as it was; even the pads of his fingers were a little rough. The calluses were unfamiliar.

Neither of them looked away. What he saw, she couldn't have guessed, wouldn't have wanted to guess, and she wasn't sure she could describe what she saw looking at him. One some levels, just a man, the same dangerous creature she'd known for seven years, one eye wide and blue, the other with a pupil so blown the iris was just a thin, pale ring. On another —

"You will not come to harm with me, Sarah," he said, and he said her name like it was precious, and for once, she didn't think it hurt.

There had been pain between them. There might still be, someday, but right now, there was no room for it.

Before she could come up with an answer, he observed, "It still troubles you. This enemy of ours. The ally we can't trust."

"Are we a team on this?" For once, Hogwarts wasn't cold, but she crossed her arms anyway, turning away from him to look toward the empty, barren fireplace in the front room. "Is that what you're saying?"

Somebody else, somebody mortal, might have paused a moment, or felt awkward, or unsure. Not Jareth. He answered instantly, sounding a little annoyed: "I told you this morning, whosoever makes an enemy of you, or of Harry Potter, makes himself an enemy of mine."

"That's not an answer. Is it us? Are we a team? Or am I just gonna be your — your agent here at Hogwarts?"

This time, he was silent, and it stretched. He was actually considering her question, giving it weight, and he took his time in answering. Before he did, he grasped her gently by the shoulders, lightly, like he was ready to let go if she struggled or protested. And then he turned her to face him, looking down at her with perfect seriousness.

"Even were you my agent here, you could never be something so simple as an instrument. You are the champion of my Labyrinth, and a power in your own right. Shall we not name ourselves what we are, a partnership of allies?" He paused, as if to add even more emphasis to the next words: "Of equals?"

She nodded, closing her eyes to get away from the conversation, from the sheer importance of it, for a moment. "That was the answer I was looking for, Jareth."

When she opened her eyes again, he was smiling at her, crooked and fond, and both his eyes glinted. "I know. I find I am… unused to equality."

And that dragged a laugh out of her. "I've noticed."

His smile curved a little wider. Genuine amusement, or maybe pleasure at making her laugh. His gaze flicked to the window, to the stars outside, but then he returned it to her. He reached out, brushing his fingers against her face again, this time pressing a touch to her lower lip.

She pressed two fingers to the inside of his wrist, and found his pulse there. Strong and slow. Sarah took in a deep breath, the kind that drew her shoulders back, and opened her mouth.

"Stay," she said, and it came out more like a question than anything else. She shook her head a little and added, softly, "Jareth, please. Stay with me."

"I'd wondered when you would ask this of me." He said it mildly, even as he reached up to unpin his cloak. He tossed it casually aside as he stepped toward her, and she wasn't so lost in him that she didn't notice it somehow landing in one of the wingbacked chairs in the front room.

"You're not disappointed, are you?"

"Only that it took so long."

It was stupid — such an obvious line — and yet it made her smile so wide it almost hurt. She could feel her eyes squinching up, a laugh bubbling at the bottom of her throat, and the best part was the way he smiled back, looking every bit as fond and vulnerable and silly as she felt.

"How strange that you, perambulating dust," Jareth began to say, but she stood on her tiptoes, leaning into him, and pressed her mouth to his. He immediately dug his fingers into her hair, tilting his head and opening his mouth wider to try and deepen the kiss, and she let him.

His mouth was even warmer than his skin. His tongue was soft, and he was gentle with it. There was no doubt that he'd decided to take control, but it wasn't a power struggle, it wasn't a contest, and heat was already pooling low in her belly, making her toes curl.

But she wanted more than just a kiss. She was the one to break it, pulling away from him. Jareth took a step forward, as if to follow her, and then she was grinning like an idiot again. She reached out, locking hands with him, winding her fingers through his, and then she stepped backward, skirt whispering, toward her bedroom. She tugged him along with her, grinning.

Jareth apparently decided to continue his earlier thought, as if she hadn't interrupted him, because he repeated what he'd said before and added on, between careful tugging steps, "Should be the vessels of immortal fire."

"I think you're the vessel of immortal fire," she said, looking down at his hands, and he threw back his head and laughed.

"I quite guarantee you, precious thing, Abu al-Ala al-Ma'arri was not thinking of my kind when he wrote those words." But his expression turned pensive for a moment, before he seemed to cast the thought away.

Sarah just smiled at him, making a mental note to write a note to one of her former professors, and let go, settling onto the bed. She reached up and back, grabbing the top lace of her robes. The knot came free and the other laces immediately loosened, as if the gown had been charmed to do just that. She gave a little shrug of her shoulders, and that was all it took to start the gown's downward slide off her shoulders. It pooled in her lap, pale gold and gleaming, and she looked up.

The only word she had for the way Jareth looked at her then was hungry. She found herself shivering in the sudden chill that came of being a quarter naked in a drafty castle at night, even as he kept up his stare.

"May I?"

She blinked, coming back to herself. "It doesn't really need much help," she said.

Jareth's eyes glinted with something that might have been mischief. She hoped it was mischief. He stepped forward in a smooth, graceful gesture, holding out a hand for her.

She took his hand and he lifted her gently to her feet, and that was all it took to turn what had been one of Mirlinda Baum's beautiful, asymmetrical creations into a puddle of yellow-gold fabric on the gray stone floor.

Sarah watched as his gaze travelled downwards, taking her all in. It was such a strange, open, vulnerable feeling. Intimidating, really, which she hadn't expected it to be. This wasn't her first time.

Maybe if there'd been someone else between her and the man she'd stolen her Kellog scarf from, maybe if her dry stretch hadn't been more than a couple of years —

Or maybe no matter what, standing in her bra and panties in front of Jareth would have felt this vulnerable.

There was at least something warm in Jareth's eyes when he looked back up to her face. His crooked smile came back.

She straightened her spine raising her chin, as he stepped toward her. Jareth looked down, brushing his fingertips along her hipbones and then down further, against the waistband of her panties. His brow furrowed as he curled his fingers on the inside, hot against her skin, and then he snapped the waistband against her, though not hard enough to hurt.

"Please tell me underwear hasn't changed that much since the last time you… were with somebody."

"In fact, it has. I shan't tell you how long it's been, but these are entirely new. Strangely becoming, nonetheless."

Maybe it shouldn't have, maybe laughter should have been the furthest thing from either of them right now, but it was worth a chuckle.

She was still laughing when Jareth reached out and tugged her underwear down, down past her hips. It hung low on her thighs, and when they both looked up, he offered her his very smuggest smirk —

Right before he dropped, entirely too dramatically, to one knee, all so he could keep pulling her underwear down. She shivered at the touch, at the sight of him like that, and shuddered again when he pressed his lips to the inside of her knee.

"It would seem you need to step, precious," he said, and she did, flicking her ankle and flinging white cotton who-knew-where just to get out of it.

Jareth straightened up again all too soon, though he trailed his hands along the sides of her legs. When he was standing up straight, he offered her his hand.

Blinking, she took it.

"Step up," he said. She must have looked confused, because he said, "As if there's a stair. Trust me."

She stepped, not sure what he was getting at but willing to find out, and found that the air supported her. It was quite possibly the strangest thing she'd ever felt, even after a year full of magic. It wasn't like standing on an invisible surface; she knew that she was standing on something, but it felt like she was just hanging in the air, waiting to fall. Even if she knew she wouldn't, knew that he wouldn't let her. She blinked again, looking down at Jareth, but he had quickly joined her.

"You've seen me do this, haven't you, Sarah?"

She had, of course. She just hadn't been expecting to join him. "What happens if you lose your concentration?"

"Why, nothing at all. Gravity has loosed its hold on us." He smiled then, and stepped around behind her.

Apparently, modern bras were different from whatever else he'd encountered, and she couldn't help laughing when he made a faintly disgruntled noise. He did figure out the hook-and-eye closures, though, and it turned out gravity still applied to her bra if neither of them was holding onto it.

Jareth took her hand and took a few more steps up, until they were hovering in mid-air. The top of his unruly hair didn't quite brush the ceiling, but it was a near thing. She smiled, bouncing up onto the tips of her toes, and kissed him again. He tasted of peaches, and when he buried one of his hands in her hair, she brought both of hers up to his shirt.

It was soft under her fingertips. That shouldn't have surprised her — Jareth could be a textbook hedonist — but she'd expected scratchy linen rather than soft silk. She undid the buttons, one after another after another, and he shrugged out of the shirt.

She'd expected him to be lean. Between his stature and the dancer's grace he moved with, she'd expected him to be slender but strong. But his chest was all wiry muscle — muscle she thought must be earned the hard way, not in a gym — stretched taut over sharp bones. She could have counted his ribs, and that almost startled her.

"Don't you eat when you're in the Underground?"

Jareth offered her a lazy shrug. "When I think of it, I suppose? But I'm not like you, Sarah, nor any of your mortals or wizards."

"I'd never have guessed," she said, dryly, and reached down to his belt.